


Autobalance

by FiveTail



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Action/Adventure, Friendship, Gen, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2011-11-16
Updated: 2011-11-28
Packaged: 2017-10-26 04:08:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,649
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/278525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiveTail/pseuds/FiveTail
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When RED introduces a new class to its team, BLU hires an old class to compare statistics. Shenanigans ensue. Another experimental tenth class fic, just what all TF2 fandom-dwellers were dying to see. Contains Guard Dog and the Auxiliary as OCs. Spirit sequel to The Tenth Class.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [The Tenth Class](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5472683) by [FiveTail](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FiveTail/pseuds/FiveTail). 



> You don't have to be familiar with [The Tenth Class](http://whathathfandomwrought.blogspot.com/2009/12/tenth-class-chapter-one.html) in order to follow this story, aside from (1) acknowledging the existence of [the Auxiliary](http://fuckyeahgiantbackpacks.tumblr.com/) in this universe (which will be explained in detail), and (2) acknowledging that in accordance with that fic, Auxi has an established history with members of the RED team.
> 
> This fic goes out to Beanie and SirKai, who've somehow managed to actively put up with me and at the same time provide insight and encouragement with the development of this story. There's no way I could be doing this without you guys.
> 
> And we're off.

The canine wagged its curled, fluffy tail, dropping the bright green alien blob back into Pyro’s gloved hand with a _squeak_.

Chuckling, Pyro threw the makeshift toy back down the barn-like hallway of the base, watching the dog dive into a pile of hay to dig after it.

“Dhrd yrru fshx thr Mrdrrgrn?”

“Yes, yes, yes, all ze proper adjustments have been made,” Medic replied from behind, waving his hand dismissively. “Honestly, zis better be worth zat _ridiculous_ veterinary seminar. I am a doctor, not a _dog valker_.”

Holding the little slug between his teeth, Guard Dog trotted happily back to the rest of its team. Engineer motioned for him; Guard Dog nuzzled happy into the offered hand.

“C’mon, y’all are overreactin’.” Engineer held up the dog’s chin, picking stray bits of straw from its coat while turning its head in appraisal. “He just needs a few adjustments, is all. Maybe a sentry mount, a trackin’ attachment to his collar...heck, I even know a hat or two that could--”

“With all due respect, Engineer, I believe you ‘ave finally went off the deep end.” Spy blew his nose into his monogrammed handkerchief, eyes red and watering. His allergies hadn’t let up for a moment since they’d found their new ‘teammate’ (and the instructional documents paper-clipped to its _kennel door_ ) sitting on their doorstep. “Yes, it is all _overreacting_ until this...flea-bitten _scoundrel_ blows my cover on the field. RED ‘as recruited an _animal_ to assist us, isn’t it obvious this team is going to the do--”

Engineer flicked a tuft of fur in Spy’s face, sending the man into a rather violent sneeze.

Sniper had seated himself atop a barrel in the far corner to watch the show. He rubbed a small block of beeswax along the string of his Huntsman while keeping the bow steady and upright between his knees. “Wot’s wrong, Sheila, can’t handle a little sniffle?”

“Of course _you_ would ‘ave no problem with an animal on our team,” Spy shot back, muttering into silk cloth. “The only surprise ‘ere is that you ‘aven’t yet _killed_ ’im and mounted ’is ’ead to the wall.”

“Oi, taxidermy’s a perfectly normal hobby. And so long as it does its _job_ , I’m all for it. That bein’ said, how in _God’s_ name are we expectin’ the mongrel to make it up my ladder?”

Engineer snapped his fingers. “I can fix that.”

“ _Mon dieu_ \--will you _listen your yourselves_? We are discussing an _animal_ as our _teammate_ , ‘ere--the mere _implication_ that one is on the same _level_ as I--”

“Take a breath, spook, everyone knows it takes more than a dog to out-bitch you.”

Guard Dog dashed past the bickering team to approach Heavy and Scout, who were idling on the other side of the room. Almost out of instinct, Scout knelt down to Guard Dog’s level, taking the squishy alien from its mouth with one hand and patting its head with the other.

“Hey, boy,” he grinned, scratching the dog behind its ears. “Yo fatcakes, you figure the BLUs got ‘emselves a mutt, too?”

Heavy shrugged. “No way to know until fight.”

Scout didn’t notice Heavy crouching down next to him until the giant nudged him and spoke again, in a much quieter voice than before.

“Though dog is good idea, was better when leetle boolet girl came to stay, _da_?”

“Hey, _I_ ain’t sayin’ anythin’ about her, am I?” Scout turned to ask him, refusing to break eye contact with Heavy even as Guard Dog began licking the side of Scout’s face. “I had a dog as a kid, I freakin’ love dogs. Dogs kick ass. As a matter of fact, I think I’m gonna start takin’ this one runnin’ with me in the mornin’. Y’know why? ‘Cuz cats can’t pull that shit off, that’s why.”

“Eez good plan! Scout teaches dog to run fast, dog becomes better scout than Scout, we put leetle Scout on guard duty.”

With another enthusiastic wag of his tail, Guard Dog pressed his wet nose up against the underside of Scout’s chin.

“Yeah, yeah...” Scout muttered, smirking as he stroked Guard’s fur. “We’ll see about that.”

-

  
The BLU Medic’s ears twitched at the sudden echo of footfall behind him, the sound of steps heavy and crisp against the white porcelain tile of his ward. Medic pinched the bulb of the pipette between his fingers until three droplets squeezed out from the end of it, falling into the test tube waiting below and tinting the transparent fluid violet. The footsteps grew louder as the figure approached the workbench; the visitor gently feathered through a few scraps of lined paper strewn about the tabletop, each sheet filled to the edges with various diagrams and calculations.

“You forgot to carry the one there, doc.”

Suppressing a sigh, Medic held his vial up to the light. Tiny bubbles of carbonation floated to the top of the purple concoction, multiplying tenfold as he swirled the liquid around within the glass.

“Keep your hardhat _avay_ from mein papers, _danke_.” The request was offhand, but firm. “I am perfectly capable of doing ze maths myself.”

“In time for the deadline?”

“Zere will be _progress_ in time for ze deadline,” Medic said sharply, slipping the vial into a rack alongside a row of its twins.

Engineer chuckled. He held a stray wooden pencil--sharpened down to a nub--in place with an index finger, before rolling it around idly on the desktop. “You could be savin’ yourself a whole lot of time and trouble if you let me help you out.”

“The probability of zis happening is approximately ze same as me strolling into your workshop and pointing out all ze medical inaccuracies in your blueprints.”

“But there _ain’t_ any inaccuracies in my blueprints.”

“My point exactly,” Medic replied. He slid what was left of the miniature pencil from beneath Engineer’s finger, and began scratching away at his notes once more. “Now, vhy don’t you stop pretending you care about mein work and tell me ze real reason you are hovering?”

Feigning an offended expression, Engineer clutched at his chest. “You’re hurtin’ me here somethin’ _awful_ , doc, thinkin’ I don’t care about you.”

“Spare me.”

Medic placed a slide containing a sample of his formula beneath the lens of his microscope. With a final smirk, Engineer leaned backwards to the desk, pressing his hands against the corner to brace himself. Engineer wasn’t reluctant to interrupt the quiet, but the voice that did so carried a much different tone.

“The last one they sent down here didn’t agree with them so well. You remember.”

Medic’s expression softened. He swivelled his chair, turning to look Engineer in the eye. “Zen we vill have to try harder to keep zis one under control, von’t we?”

Another stretch of silence. Medic turned back to his desk.

Engineer drummed his fingers on the table and scoffed beneath his breath. “Can you _imagine_ what it’s going to be like, havin’ another dang Auxiliary ‘round here?”

Medic shook his head, alternating glances between the eyepiece of his microscope and the notepad beneath his opposite hand. “We vould have been better off vith ze dog.”


	2. Chapter 2

The machine emitted soft, metronomic beeping in place of a teammate’s idle chatter, a rhythmic echo pulsating off the walls in lieu of a silent heartbeat. What wasn’t bathed in moonlight within the warehouse was illuminated with the continual rise and fall of blue glow from an active siren.

“You see that there, Corporal?”

The BLU Soldier knelt on one knee by the Mini-Sentry’s side, resting a free hand on top of it. Soldier raised the end of his shovel sharply to point across the room, into the shadows.

“ _That’s_ what they’ve resorted to,” he snarled. “ _Emotional_ tactics. _Moral_ dilemmas. _Questions_ of _conscience_.”

A length of bridge and an inactive control point separated them and the enemy. Soldier shot to his feet.

“I’ll tell you this right now, you furry son of a bitch, my conscience DIED when I SCALPED my first NAZI back in WWII. HANDS and PAWS alike, ANYTHING that threatens MY existence WILL have a FIRST-CLASS ROCKET ADDRESSED TO THEIR FACE.”

The RED Guard Dog remained seated on the opposite side of the bridge, cloaked in darkness between flashes of cyan light. Unblinking, it pawed gently, readily against the cement. The canine growled at the BLU Soldier, low and threatening, and the BLU growled right back.

The sound of a door shutting broke the tension.

The Mini-Sentry braced for attack; it propped itself up on its tripod, spinning around to face the direction of the sudden noise downstairs. Soldier tapped his shovel against the Mini-Sentry’s head. The clanging snapped the bot out of its trance; it redirected its nozzle to look up curiously at its ally with an almost childlike nature.

“At ease, Corporal,” the man grumbled. “We’ve got _bigger_ fish to worry about.”

-

The smell of wood shavings and metal hung in the air.

Engineer’s workshop was filled with tools and scrap parts, buckets and shelves of nuts and bolts and loose wire arranged in some organized chaotic system. Half-finished projects littered the counters. Something in the room was ticking, but there were no clocks in sight.

“Nice setup you got here,” the visitor said absently, her eyes drifting to the single tool on the wall that wasn’t glistening stainless: the largest wrench hanging at the end of a nail, its clamp teeth caked with blood. The sight of it made her stomach twist. “Biggest collection I’ve ever seen in-person.”

She tore her eyes away from the tool set when the man working in the corner didn’t respond.

“Sorry,” she said quickly. “Wonderful to meet you, I’m--”

“Have a seat.”

Going quiet, she did as she was told, making her way to the only free chair in the room. A gun occupied her seat. The bright blue ribbon stuck to the barrel hinted the weapon wasn’t misplaced.

“I--is this mine?”

The BLU Engineer remained silent.

The young woman took the gun into her hands, getting a feel for the weight of it before sitting down. [The M2 Carbine](http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=o-J-uNcwnXo). Brand new. A change from what she was used to.

“How’s New York treatin’ you?”

She looked over in surprise. Engineer was still working in the far corner, his back turned towards her.

“Oh, it’s great,” she said. “I was actually going to school there before I joined up.”

“You ever miss Canada?”

“...yeah, I get...homesick once in a while. My dad and I take trips up there every so often to get away, so it’s not all that bad. Funny thing is, Builder’s League United didn’t think I fit the title of ‘Canadian’ enough? Made me up and take _accent_ lessons. Sometimes I wonder about this place, eh?”

She offered a chuckle, but ended up laughing alone.

“Ammunitions expert, is it?” he continued.

An eager nod. “Oh, yes, sir. All types, all kinds.”

“Define stoppin’ power.”

She jilted her new gun for a moment. The back of it pressed to her shoulder as she shut an eye to glance down the barrel.

“Stopping power’s an abstract rating explaining the effect a single shot fired has on the inertia of a hit moving target,” she started. “It’s more than just the round size and secondary features--like a hallow point or jacketing--it’s also how much powder is used, the bore of the firearm, accuracy of the person firing it, and man--”

“What’s the difference between the .308 and the 7.62?”

“Well, when you said 7.62, I thought 7.62x33mm like the kind used in this little sweetheart here,” she said, fondly patting her new weapon. “But assuming you’re talking about the .308 Winchester and the 7.62x51mm NATO, they’re pretty much the same, ballistically, I mean, your .308’s got a nominal max of 62,000psi chamber pressure while your 7.62x33’s got a nominal max just over 60,000psi. Far as I know, chamber pressure difference within the cartridge type isn’t an issue, so unless you’re looking for accuracy with precision target rifles, they’re interchangeable. ‘Course, that’s the extent of _my_ knowledge, who knows if it’ll end up catastrophic.”

The resulting silence came as less of a surprise this time around.

A few more moments passed before the scrounging of Engineer’s papers could be heard; he finally turned around, approaching her with a scroll of paper.

“We’re at Dustbowl tomorrow,” he said, pushing it into her hands. “This here’s a copy of the outlines you’ll be needin’.”

She half-juggled the gun and scroll to prevent either from falling; carbine in one hand, she used the other to roll out the scroll in front of her. The paper was a dingy white with frays along the edges, crude diagrams littered with cruder writing, slivers in the page where the pencil tore through. On the surface, they were little more than various geometric shapes within more geometric shapes, supported with capital letters and more punctuation than necessary--yet, upon closer examination, it was made obvious just how complex these battle plans were. If one read between the sketchy lines, one would find a topographic map complete with several lovingly-nicknamed landmarks (ANOTHER DAMN SENTRY HIDEAWAY; A WALL) and outlines of RED’s normal strategy of ambush and attack. More important, this guide indicated everyone rationed bullet expulsions.

She had _rounds_.

“Outlines,” she repeated, softly.

“Had to write up your part,” he pointed out. “Sarge wasn’t comfortable addin’ someone like you to his plans, but if they’re takin’ ammo crates off the field, it’s a necessity.”

“I just figured we’d be able to…that we’d go out there on our gut feelings, is all.”

“Missy, this is a battlefield, not a playground. Prove to the Sarge you’re worth keepin’ around and save me the trouble from havin’ to keep you in the loop. Now, do y’know about the ammo we use ‘round these parts or don’tchya?”

“Yes, sir--I’ve studied it, extensively. I was part of BLU’s training program, I know about everything we use like the back of my hand.”

“And I’m guessin’ bein’ an ex-RED’s got nothin’ to do with it?”

“...they, er...they sure do tell you a lot about me in my file, eh?”

“You didn’t come with no file.”

He could almost hear her spine straighten. The quiet swallow she took. The gears in her head turning as she tried so hard to put pieces together while she was falling to them.

Once he stopped feeling her gaze on the back of his neck, he swivelled his chair around to have a look at her.

Her combat boots shifted against the top of her right calf from her bobbing her leg restlessly. She fiddled with her dark gloves (both middle fingers missing from them), upon the lap of black shorts that were folded at the knee. She wore a blue serge tunic, beltless with black cuffs and matching high collar, a black stripe atop either shoulder and a pocket atop either breast. It was the kind of top Canadian officers wore. The kind of top that looked better in red.

Her dark brown bangs brushed the side of her face as she hung her head and watched her fingers move amongst the gun and the scroll. She tugged her slipping headband back up around her forehead, readjusting the knot settled beneath her ponytail. Her hands were trembling. She hadn’t breathed in thirty seconds.

(Thirty-one.)

(Thirty-two.)

She looked back up, and flinched.

The BLU Engineer was suddenly towering over her, his hands buried in his overall pockets, the light of the workshop glaring across the lenses of his goggles. He smelled of grease and smoke. He’d moved halfway across his workshop without making a single noise, but now all she could hear was his breathing.

“Everythin’ alright, darlin’? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”

**Author's Note:**

> _“Team Fortress 2”, and all canon characters and characteristics remain the property and rights of Valve Corporation._


End file.
